


Helpless

by redsnake05



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Foot Fetish, Footbinding, Masturbation, Other, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius needs things that he can't get. The rot gnaws at him as implacably as it does at this prison of a house, and fantasies only bring fleeting relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helpless

They were red like blood, stained all over with blooms of green and yellow in tiny silk stitches. Small enough to fit in his hand, as if he could grasp the world in faded satin. If he pressed them to his face, he was sure he could smell the suffering and helplessness on them. Sirius smiled, stroking a finger over them, tracing the graceful arcs of decoration, imagining how the wearer must have swayed like a reed as she picked her way over cobblestones, over tile, over rugs spread in the warm bedroom of her master. There would have been no trace of hesitation in her obedience, feet shackled in soft wrapping. She would have had no choice.

Even the tiny stitches of the embroidery spoke of servility. He imagined women, heads bent low over their needles, willingly making their decorative shackles. As if, in making their bonds more attractive, they could make their captors more lenient. Perhaps find a way to salvage some control. Sirius loved that thought, loved the idea of a woman deluding herself that she had dominion over her body or her will. He could imagine the pleasure of breaking her down, humbling her conceit and glorying in her humiliation.

He wrapped them back up in tissue paper and tucked them away in a drawer. It was not time to contemplate them yet. Restless feet took him to the window where he watched the Muggles pass on the street below. Some of the girls called out to him, tempting him with their tiny steps and swaying gait on narrow heels, the way they swung their hips, their whole body an invitation. He imagined them pliant and unresisting, imagined their fantasies that he was there to rescue them from their banal lives. Imagined them bending to his will, until they realised he truly meant it. Then he imagined their attempts to resist, unable to run on their ridiculous heels, trapped against him. He imagined them realising he was captor, not saviour. He would be so close he would be able to feel their hearts beating like frightened birds in their chests.

He could imagine crushing one of them, feeling fear and anger morphing, draining out to acceptance, more fear, and the trembling desire to please. To please him, to serve him, shoes firmly strapped to tiny feet, shackling them into subservience. Whore. Slave.

A knock on the door interrupted him. He turned from the window, grateful for the heavy drape of wizard's robes hiding his half-hard cock. "Come in," he called.

"Dinnertime," replied Tonks, cheerfully, sticking her head round the door and smiling. "Molly's cooked up a storm down there, and the teenagers are ready to stage a riot if their bellies aren't filled soon."

"Wouldn't want that, would we?" said Sirius, forcing a smile in reply. "I can remember what it was like."

"Me too," said Tonks. "I had a hard day at work, so I'm starving. Come on."

She ducked back out and Sirius followed more slowly. He watched her bound gracelessly down the stairs, half expecting her to fall any moment. She was all bounce and vigour; not a shred of decorum to be found anywhere.

The kitchen was full of red heads, all talking. Scraping cutlery and loud demands for dishes echoed around the kitchen. Molly was brisk and motherly and competent, Ginny loud and boisterous. Hermione was bookish and bossy, pushing her hair out of her face with an impatient hand and jumping in to fix everything she saw. He ached to be back in his room, where he could imagine himself wrapped up in red silk and delicious submission.

Finally he escaped, leaving the lounge populated with noisy teenagers, with Arthur and Molly sitting quietly in the corner. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his cabinet and settled back on the bed, staring sightlessly at the far wall. The spirit burned his throat going down as he drank straight from the bottle in long, slow gulps. Reaching out, he put it back on the table next to the bed. Behind his eyes, his mind slowly eased down from the confused jumble of thoughts that dinner and company always brought him. Too many people and jostling bodies; he still wasn't used to it.

Levering himself off the bed, Sirius walked over to the curtains and opened them. The street below was darkly shadowed around the sickly orange halos of the streetlamps, empty save for some papers tumbling loose over concrete and asphalt. Sirius looked up at the sky and smiled thinly at the shreds of clouds scudding over the nearly full moon. Times like this, he missed the simplicity of his youth, running free under the sky. He turned away and walked to his dresser, opening the drawer and removing the delicate, tissue wrapped bundle from inside. Placing it gently on the dark woodstained top, he peeled back the layers one by one, letting them unfurl in the flickering cadlelight. The shoes never failed to make his breath catch.

When he had been young, this had always been inside him. Remus had always hated the animal lurking under his skin, but Sirius had long known that his own desires were darker. Deeper, more treacherous. He had watched Lily Evans sweep back her red hair and smile, watched her short skirts and her bare feet, vulnerable and tucked under her as she sank down to the sofa. He had devoured her with his gaze and imagined how she might melt against him. How her toes would curl and her legs would kick in impotent flailings, when she realised he was not playing. But he only watched her, and the other girls. Eyes hooded and intentions hidden, he had scrutinised them closely and let the fantasies play out later, in his bed with the curtains closed.

Later, after Azkaban, Sirius's lusts had been black and violent. He looked down at the shoes and shook out a cigarette with one hand, lighting it and dragging the acrid smoke into his lungs. He remembered the day he'd been given the shoes, a little gift from the madam at the Chinese whorehouse in Shanghai. He took another long drag, letting the smoke stream out his nostrils. The whorehouse had been grey and bare outside, but inside was draped in red silk and padded cushions. Sirius had taken what he wanted without thought or restraint, pushing the girl down to the bed and holding her nose and mouth shut as she fought against him. Then he'd said the word and she had gone limp under him. Her skin had been smooth, except for where his handprints stood out purple and red on the olive flesh. The shoes had been a memento, a reminder of the absolute power he had there.

Faint shrieks of laughter floated up the stairs and insinuated themselves round the gaps in the doors, reminding Sirius abruptly of his captivity. The room was bare and cold; bigger than his cell in Azkaban, but no less stuffed with painful memories. He could feel the hate and rage churning in his belly. It ran over his skin like an electric charge, desperate to find ground.

But there was no crimson-clad prostitute for him here, waiting to do his bidding with well-trained promptness. He couldn't exchange money for a resistless body, and his impotence gnawed at him alongside his lust. He dropped the cigarette to the floor and stubbed it into ash under his boot. Leaving the shoes on the dresser, Sirius arranged the lights to show them off, tiny little flowers that shackled better than the strongest iron.

Shrugging off his robes and kicking off his boots, Sirius warded and silenced the room, the quiet and shadows pooling heavily in the corners. Leaving the dresser in a spotlight, exposed and open for Sirius to look at. It wasn't the same, not without the quick glance of a woman at his feet, desperate to see if she had pleased him, but it would have to do. He slid his hand down his chest and wrapped it round his cock, wandlessly conjuring some lube to slick his grip. Already hard, every nerve was stretched tight under his skin, and he knew he was close already.

His hand gripped tightly, twisting just a little at the top, and he could nearly imagine that it was a girl in front of him with her lips stretched wide around his shaft and her eyes directed up at him, checking his satisfaction with her performance. Then he could imagine her eyes fluttering closed as she lost herself in the pleasure of serving him. That was a sweet taste to savour. He imagined holding her head still as he fucked her mouth and used her. He wasn't sure which was better, the sweet yearning of submission, or the bitter savagery of forcing himself into a fighting body. He liked them both, wanted them both. The black rot in his blood demanded them both. He imagined the girl on her knees turning, in response to his command, on all fours and vulnerable. He wanted her to bleed. He wanted to smell the coppery tang of it in the air, mixing with the smell of his sweat as he fucked her. His hand moved faster on his cock as he imagined her crying softly, but remaining pliant under him. With one last twist and tug, he was flying, muscles spasming and cock jerking, sending long ropes of come over his belly and the floor.

A careless cleansing charm and most of it was gone. Alone again, he turned to the bed and his whiskey, swallowing straight from the bottle. As he slid under the sheets, smooth glass clutched tight in his hands, he watched the shoes, glowing soft in the candlelight, alluring and unobtainable. Just like everything else in his life.


End file.
